


Deprived

by Burnt_Frying_Pan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creepy soul stuff, Dream sequences!, Dude just has a soft spot for his horcruxes, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, M/M, Possessive Voldemort, Voldemort figures that out real fast, Voldemort trying to convince Harry to give his location, Voldemort’s still evil af tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-02-13 04:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12975438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnt_Frying_Pan/pseuds/Burnt_Frying_Pan
Summary: It starts with a quiet longing in his soul, a desperate plea for something he can’t name. Then, his chest aches, and the slow pump of his heart is plagued by sharp stings. His vision soon gets shaky. It teeters on a seeing sea saw, going from perfect clarity to an abstract painting.It’s not too long before he loses himself to sleep.Oh? Voldemort? He's just developed an obsession. It’s nothing new.





	1. Chapter One

Despite what Harry Potter would like to believe, his glasses were not the reason for his world tilting. Sure, the prescription was off a few numbers, but ill-fitting glasses did not cause an all-encompassing emptiness to fill one’s chest, and ill-fitting glasses did not work fine one moment and turn one’s world into an abstract painting the next.

But alas, Harry Potter, if you didn't know, had always had a strange infatuation with denial, no matter how many times it hurt him.

“Can’t wait to get back to Hogwarts. They’ve got to have something to fix this,” he wrote. He also said it aloud, but he would never admit to that. Really, Harry should have built up a bit of confidence before attending a wizarding school.

If Cho Chang was in the room, she’d probably scold him for having such an inferiority complex.

She also would’ve tried to make a list of Harry’s complexes. Truly, if she were a muggle, she would have made a great insufferable psychology major. 

Her list would feature well organized, multi color pens, an overpriced Flourish and Blotts notebook, and an oddly therapist like heading: Harry Potter’s Problematic Complexes. Under the heading would be two lovingly written columns, each complete with their own set of footnotes highlighting his far too easily seen flaws. 

Hero complex, the first would read. Cho wouldn’t like addressing it. Wasn’t Harry Potter’s insatiable “saving people problem” the thing that made him a worthwhile boyfriend? Self sacrifice really was an appealing characteristic, and Cho was a sucker for men who were easy to manipulate. Cedric and Harry would fall in line with just a bat of her eyes and a swing of her hips. Of course his hero complex would remain largely unaddressed. It was just a little drawback of having your makeshift therapist double as your girlfriend. 

The second heading would be in an urgently scrawled all caps. Inferiority complex. Even Hermione’s O.W.L. review’s over achieving splendor couldn’t match Cho Chang’s desire to make Harry Potter the confident boy to sweep her off her feet, and so the inferiority complex column would be colored with at least three different highlighters, written in elegant cursive that could rival Tom Riddle’s, and lovingly tucked into a too thick binder. 

But Cho was not in the room, and Harry was left with his own miserable ignorance.

And as he drafted his likely to be unanswered letter to Ron Weasley, the subject of his ignorance crept behind his eyes like the black ink scrawled upon his paper. The emptiness soon followed in its chaotic wake, filling him with a longing he could not deny. It was like a demon had caught his soul with a spiritual fishing rod. It tugged, waiting for him to take the bait. 

The only problem was, of course, Harry did not know what the bait was. 

Harry didn’t know what his soul yearned for. The only thing that mattered was the emptiness, and Harry would rather like to feel whole again. 

For a soon to be regretted second, he even thought that he would do anything to keep the pain away. To not be empty.

How wrong he was.

Suddenly, the world spun, and Harry’s instantly limp arms knocked over a pr ecariously placed inkwell. The ink saturated his carefully thought out words and made an everlasting stain, a testament to the severity of his illness. It ran off the tinted table like a lazy snake, and only the precious homework he had worked so hard on blocked the black river. 

Harry didn’t even get to see the damage. His body lied motionless on the floor, and his head was far away from Private Drive’s smallest bedroom.

***

The first thing Harry registered was the frigid metal against his chest. It steadily beat in the same rhythm of his own heart, undoubtedly and indisputably  _ alive.  _ But it was so cold, so unlike his own warm, mammalian flesh and blood.

Yet he couldn’t find it in himself to be afraid. Each resounding  _ thump _ of the necklace erased some amount of the disorienting pain he had grown so used to, and Harry couldn’t care about the origins of such soothing relief.

He clutched it closer, eager to find respite in his own hellish reality. A groan of joy left his mouth, and he opened his eyes to thank the object that had brought him such happiness.

It was gaudy against his naked chest. Harry didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it was not a green and silver pendant. Trust him, the most unlucky Gryffindor to ever exist, to be saved by a  _ Slytherin  _ heirloom; the jeweled “S” shape was quite clear. Angry at the identity of his savior, Harry glared down at the frivolous necklace.

“Why do you look at it with such disdain, my dear? Just seconds ago you were holding it like it was the most precious thing in the world, and it’s quite pretty. Matches your eyes,” a rich baritone startled him out of his blind hate.

The voice inspired him to look at something other than the jewels around his neck, and he quickly realized the extravagance of the jewelry extended to the room. Green silk clung to his legs in the form of sheets more expensive than Aunt Petunia’s wedding ring, bedposts of intricately intertwined snakes snakes rose far above his head, and a snake-faced Lord Voldemort sat across from him in a chair that might as well have been a throne.

As if searching for something familiar in the world of new things, Harry’s right hand again gripped the necklace. The added contact evaporated away all pain, and he couldn’t help the dopey smile that spread across his face. Voldemort gave a satisfied smirk in response.

“Yes, just like that, dear,” he said, causing Harry to turn his grin into a menacing scowl. 

“Stop calling me that! You’re  _ Lord Voldemort _ . I’m Harry Potter, and I don’t want to hear about how your old ass necklace makes my eyes look pretty. I’m not dear, and I’m definitely not yours,” Harry spluttered out a slew of indignant demands. 

Voldemort was pleased to note that, despite his disgust, Harry had not taken off his precious treasure.  _ Two of  _ **_his_ ** _ pretty things in the same room, protected by countless enchantments, exactly the way it should be. If only... _

_ “ _ I’m well aware of who we are, dear,” said Voldemort, relishing the the wrathful glare Harry gave him, a fruitless retaliation, “But you’re wrong in most of your assumptions. You are dear, now, and you are most certainly  _ mine _ , so I do suggest compliance with both declarations,” neatly folded hands and an unwavering tone complimented the authority of Lord Voldemort’s speech. 

“As for the ‘old ass necklace,’” Voldemort put disinterested air quotes around Harry’s inelegant way of phrasing things, “I shall try to restrain myself from making further comment on its… alluring… aspects,” Voldemort said, sly. Despite the absolutely inopportune moment, Harry blushed, and Voldemort couldn’t help his muttered: 

“Gorgeous.”

Harry loathingly wondered what he had ever done to deserve such disturbing dreams. 

“God. Just tell me where my shirt is, please,”  _ such a good boy, using his manners.  _

“You asked so nicely, but I’m afraid a layer of fabric between you and our darling locket will only cause pain. And the last thing I want for  _ my _ dear is pain,” Voldemort said, eyes darkening as he remembered the scars that adorned his horcrux’s body. 

_ Restrain yourself! The chase is best part. He’ll be here soon. Actually here, not in a frivolous dream. Nagini will wrap around his chest, another chair will be set by the fireplace, and the world will think him dead. _

“Couldn’t I just put the  _ thing _ ,” there was a mixture of confusion and disgust in his pronunciation of the word, “inside my shirt?” he asked.

But the locket seemed to have some sort of sentience, and Harry received a sharp, yet short, sting in response to his question. He gave an involuntary wince, a quick moment of weakness. Voldemort could barely stop himself from cooing; his dear was so pretty. 

“Ah,” the Dark Lord sighed like Harry was bringing up politics at Thanksgiving dinner, “as I’m sure you can already see, our friend is not fond of being hidden. He was stuffed in a cupboard for quite some time, dear. I’m sure you, of all people, could muster up a small bit of empathy for the poor thing,” Voldemort said with an infliction of false tentativeness. 

“How do you know about that?” Harry was genuinely bewildered. Sure, he knew this was a d ream. But it all felt so real, and it was easy to forget that this conversation was a fantasy, not his own twisted reality. 

“It truly is amazing the amount of things Severus overhears in Hogwarts,” Voldemort laughed, and it was a real laugh, one that came from the chest, throaty and humor-filled. Harry couldn’t help but gape.  _ Voldemort has a goddamn sense of humor! I mean, it’s terrible, and it’s his own joke, but it’s not murder. Wow. Dream Voldemort is really out of character.  _

“What is so astonishing, dear? Please share your unexpected epiphany,” he used those snobbish hand movements Harry only saw Uncle Vernon’s richer coworkers use.

Eyes downcast, Harry shook his head before saying, “Oh, nothing. It’s just that I dream of the weirdest shit,” a slightly hysterical giggle escaped his mouth.

They were both smiling, Harry for the pure ridiculousness of the situation, and Voldemort for his impending victory. Humans do find humor in the most morbid of things.

“Well, dear, this is a dream, but it is much more than the typical imagination induced stupor,” he was cut off by his horcruxes amused snort.

“Wow, Lord Voldemort can’t even dream like a normal person,” Voldemort chose to ignore the eye roll that followed the sarcastic statement.  _ You, my dear, have a privilege you’re not even aware of, and it’s saving your life. _

“As I was saying, we are both, as muggle psychologists call it, ‘lucid dreaming,”  _ more like I sensed a strong distress and longing in one of my horcruxes, so I forced my way into your mind, and it turns out you’re a precious treasure.  _

“However, I am housing the dream in my mindscape,”  _ your new home. _

_ “ _ That’s why there are much more… fineries than what you are used to,”  _ and you’ll have them all, dear. _

_ “ _ Just know your actions have consequences here, and what you do in this world Lord Voldemort will remember,”  _ I’ll remember the quirks of your mouth, the stuttered breaths you take, the contrast of the locket and your skin, the way you’ll always need pieces of my soul to survive- _

“I’m sorry, but you’re not Voldemort,” Harry almost laughed again, “Voldemort killed my godfather. Voldemort killed my parents. He’s trying to kill me,”  he spoke like he was having a conversation with a three year old, “Voldemort would not invite me into his lucid dream, and he definitely wouldn’t call me ‘dear.’ Voldemort would do the exact fucking opposite of tucking me into sheets and giving me a pain killing, sentient necklace,” and then there’s a pause before a damning sentence.

“If you are so sure this is, in fact, a dream, then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind sharing your place of residence,”  _ could it really be this easy, the capture of his beautiful soul? _

“Still not taking any chances. I’m stupid, but not that stupid,”  _ of course not. Where would be the fun in that? _

There was another burst of silence before the rustle of sheets was heard and that untamable mound of black hair got out of bed. Harry periodically made eye contact with Voldemort while he explored his surroundings, as if he was trying to watch his back. It was oddly endearing. 

_ My little kitten thinks he’s a tiger. _

His eyes glossed over the bedside table, nondescript as it was, but stopped to admire the craftsmanship on the, in his opinion, much too large dresser. Not once did he glance upon the furniture around Voldemort, fearing it might seem as if he was staring. 

“Is it not to your liking?” he asked, slightly worried. He had spent some time upon the decorations. Perhaps Harry was not fond of the Slytherin color scheme? 

“Yes, actually. It’s a bit too gaudy for my tastes,” he said while fidgeting with the locket. It swung back and forth, a poor pendulum. 

To Voldemort, that was absolutely unacceptable.

“And what are your tastes, dear?” he must remedy this quickly. If Harry was to be persuaded into returning to  _ his home _ , the house would have to be much preferable to Hogwarts, to his summer prison. Everything would have to be perfect,  _ just like Harry _ .

“I like it cozy,” he said. 

_ Could my darling be any more ambiguous? _

“Any colors you-“ Voldemort was again cut off by Harry, the bane of his existence. It was a simple, muttered phrase, rather crude, actually. Just the parting words:

“What the fuck,” and Harry Potter had, once again, enamoured, pissed off, and baited Lord Voldemort. 

_ How does someone leave such emptiness in their tracks? _

_ Who woke him up? They’ve just sentenced themselves to death.  _

_ I hope he’s not too hurt… _

Voldemort then spent the day researching the urban style of “cozy.” 


	2. Chapter Two

Harry wasn’t sure how long he slept on ink soaked hardwood, but he knew it was a while. It was long enough for the sun to reach behind his eyelids, still vehemently closed, still secretly hoping for that silver pendant to return to his neck.

_ Cool relief like water down your throat on a hot summer’s day. Heartbeat like an endless lullaby, a constant thump. Painless and blessedly alive. _

His chest was empty again, and it burned him with its pointless protests. It cried for Lord Voldemort, uncaring of the damning nature of its request. Damnation didn’t matter, not when each pump of blood felt like a knife’s kiss.

There was a tiny, unheard crack when Harry opened his eyes; like he had just shattered something sacred, closed a door he didn’t know he had opened. A ridgid finality overtook his mind, then. 

Seeing the previous night’s damage was infinitely sobering. It was a dream, all of it. The real world was an ink splattered mess with a spiteful attitude, not a place with shining necklaces.

But it was beautiful in its own rite. The birds outside sung praises to the sun, and it felt so wrong to Harry. It was so wrong. So wrong that birds could continue chirping when his life had turned into a living hell. 

_ So right. Metal and jewels shining like an extra expensive star in his hands. So right. _

But life was fickle. She expected people to move quickly, as if she had not just taken away their stability. 

Harry, of course, was no exception. 

“Boy!” and with the rising of the sun and the singing of the birds, Uncle Vernon’s voice boomed throughout Private Drive.

Really, if he hadn’t yelled then, Harry would’ve thought waking up was a dream, too.

“Coming Uncle!” perhaps chores would set his head straight. They would be melodic and easily done, a familiar hardship in the face of extravagant challenge. 

_ But it wasn’t a challenge. There was silk and kindness and banter and that necklace- _

Those words should not be associated with Lord Voldemort, Harry reasoned with himself

Should and are: two very different things.

“If you aren’t down here in a minute, boy,” Uncle Vernon was never known for his patience. Harry was never known for his regard for his Uncle’s shortcomings.

“Yes, I know,” he took pleasure in the slow rebellion of taking his time. Where else was he going to spend it?

***

With gaudy gems for eyes, Slytherin’s locket winked at Voldemort. It said, silently of course, “ **Are you bringing him back?”**

Teasing its master, tearing him apart, chipping away at the already shattered sanity. Locket, that sly devil, was a force to be reckoned with.

_ Perfect for you, my dear Harry. Just look at you both, two delusional kittens, viciously swiping with blunt claws.  _

As if sensing the turn of its master’s thoughts, locket replied: “ **But he isn’t yours, not at all, and I don’t think he wants to be. Look at what he’s done, Lord Voldemort,”** the title was mocking from his nonexistent mouth, **“He’s destroyed a piece of our soul. He is unworthy. Unwilling, too,”** even in his head, Voldemort could hear the mischievous smirk in locket’s voice.

“Harry Potter is mine,” it was more of a plea than a declaration. 

**“It’s easier to stick to a failing point than it is to admit your follies,”** the locket said, but Mrs. Cole’s accent blended into his speech. 

_ Billy Stub’s rabbit hanging from the rafters. The box of taken toys Tom Riddle had no use for. He only wanted -no, he needed- that power, the addicting rush of bending others to your will. Mrs. Cole could never quite catch him, the boy with the insufferable cunning. Always the same phrase in response to his misdemeanors. Always the same reply. Their own little game. _

“Taken to the matron’s preaching have you?” and it was Voldemort’s turn to mock. 

The gems glittered like Tom Riddle’s eyes once had, and the master soul knew he was about to be subjected to the younger’s beseeching wit. 

**“I just thought it appropriate. You know, Harry has a scar. Something about telling lies,”** the emerald was positively glowing, then. For the first time since his self-imprisonment, Tom Riddle felt victorious. 

_ The only thing that shall mar his skin is that scar. My scar. My claim. My Harry. No one else. _

“Who?!” Voldemort demanded, but only pleased laughter came in response.

**“You must not tell lies, Lord Voldemort. You must not tell lies.”**

***

It was lifeless in comparison to what Harry was looking for. The red ruby was glassy and dead instead of glinting and alive, but the necklace still called to him. It was tempting, and Harry didn’t know why. 

He stared at the ugly pendant while he dusted, a simple back in forth motion that usually took up his mind. Even while he ran the feathers over the books on the bookshelf, the thing held his gaze.

Harry didn’t understand why he left the jewelry box for last.

He stood over Aunt Petunia’s dresser like Dudley stood over the cookie jar, with a sneaky slouch and a guilty gaze. His hands moved slow and shaky; only his fingertips grazed the ruby’s glassy surface.

_ Disappointment. Only bitter, hateful disappointment.  _

_ What were you expecting? _

Harry looked down at freshly dusted mahogany while he reluctantly slipped the flashy gold chain over his neck. It was awkward and bulky and nothing like-

_ Cool silver and weightless gems. _

It was nothing compared to his dreams.

But even nothing is something.

***

Lord Voldemort settled only when the word ‘perfect’ left his lips, and interior design was no exception. The carpet had to be just the right shade of muted grey, and the bed had to be just the perfect level of soft. 

Floating lights would deviate from the natural, non-threatening atmosphere of the room, completely unacceptable. Perhaps a tall lamp would do better? Would that fit his dear’s ‘cozy’ standards?

_ All to lure you here. Are you flattered, my dear? Flattered that your master would go to such lengths to bring you home? _

Paint swatches littered his desk like paper’s usually would, but Azkaban was no longer the first priority. No, not when a precious piece of his soul hung in the balance. Especially when said soul had the power to contact Dumbledore. 

_ My darling is delusional. To think that a dear little body like his is to go to war? It’s preposterous. Contacting Dumbledore would only bring him farther away from the gilded cage he deserves. _

Voldemort’s hand tightened around his wand, causing a misfire of a rather delicate transfiguration spell.

_ Not to worry. He’s already starving for contact.  _

His body relaxed again when he remembered the way Harry clutched the locket close.

_ You’ll have him. _

Insufferably fluffy blankets and pointlessly decadent pillows were brought into the office covered in home improvement magazines. If Lord Voldemort wasn’t trying to lure a mistaken horcrux into his home, it would have been oddly domestic. He put one especially meek looking Death Eater under a crucio; it was cathartic. 

_ You’ll have him. _

Bookshelves were lined with countless books, each an ode to Harry’s interests. Quidditch commentaries, self defense charms, the art of amigus. A Dark Arts book hidden among the rest.

_ You’ll have him. _

“Perfect,” the word finally left Lord Voldemort’s mouth, and the Death Eaters could breathe a sigh of relief.

He caused pain again, just so they didn’t think he was weak.

_ You’ll have him. _

He lied in bed, closed his eyes, and readied his lips for another stream of persuasions.

_ You’ll have him. _

But the locket retorted, then, right before blissful sleep:

**You must not tell lies, Lord Voldemort. You must not tell lies.**

The sound of ethereal laughter was the last he heard before darkness.

***

_ How dare he? _

Lifeless ruby marred his beloved’s beautiful complexion, and a chain of tasteless gold wrapped ‘round round his neck; it was absolutely hideous. 

Lord Voldemort’s hands couldn’t seem to help themselves as they ripped the dastardly jewelry apart. Glinting pieces scattered across the floor like shattered glass, beautifully broken. 

Harry’s eyes opened with the harsh treatment, and Voldemort instantly regret his actions.

_ No! No! No! _

“What the fuck,” the profanity slipped from Harry’s mouth like oil running down a playground slide. “What the absolute fuck is going on?” and he looked up at the heavily breathing, snake faced, jewelry destroying Dark Lord with an expression that is almost never on his face: a look of complete and utter terror.

“Shh,” Voldemort soothed, pretending like he did not just rip a necklace to shreds because it felt threatening to his claim. “Let me get something to make it better.”

_ Because I am the one to bring you pain, and I shall be the one to bring you health. _

He pulled the locket out from a unseen pocket in his far too expensive robes, and the same ghostly hands that destroyed Aunt Petunia’s pendant uncoupled Slytherin’s locket with something akin to reverence. 

Voldemort doesn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes brighten at the sight of a piece of his soul. 

Did you put that on because you ne eded me?” he wondered aloud.

_ If you'd  _ _ just come home, then you wouldn’t have to suffer. Why must you be so difficult dear? _

“Tell Lord Voldemort why you poisoned your own skin, and he shall give you the cure,” he hated seeing those tears cloud his darling’s eyes, but it was essential. It was essential that Harry admit his needs. 

“Did you know that talking in third person is a sign of insanity?” he asked.

It hurt; oh god, it hurt, but Harry would be damned if he didn’t put up a fight.

“Did you know that denying yourself what you need makes you an insufferable martyr? I’m not very fond of martyrs, dear,” Voldemort retorted.

“I’m not particularly fond of the idea that a clinically insane Dark Lord ripped a necklace off my neck,” they stared at each other for a while before one of them spoke.

“Just give me the fucking necklace,” there’s tears of pain pooling beneath his eyelids, and in his own twisted way, Voldemort thought it was beautiful.

“Why did you mar your skin with that putrid piece of metal?” he wanted an answer, wanted to hear the admittance pour from his lips the way cuss words did.

“I don’t know why, but I’ve been in pain for a fucking month, and the only thing that’s given me relief is your bullshit necklace. I put on that ‘putrid piece of metal,’” Harry snorted, “because I thought it would take away that emptiness and knife stab shit. For the love of god, just give me the necklace.”

It wasn’t the tearful, desperate confession Voldemort was looking for, but it would have to do.

Bone white fingers with clasps in hand made their way towards Harry’s neck, and all of his instincts screamed at him to run, get away from this monstrous killer who’s about to choke you.

He didn't listen. He was Harry Potter; he never did.

Voldemort didn’t touch his beloved’s skin until he was forced to buckle the notches at an awkward angle, and neither of them were prepared for the reaction. There was a hitched breath and a startled whimper as soon as their skin made contact.

_ Whole. This is what this feeling is. Whole. Is it bliss, too? Is this fate assuring me that my dear is really mine? _

He griped the back of Harry’s neck hard. It felt like noose, and perhaps it was, for this moment was killing Harry’s freedom.

“Mine,” Voldemort growled. Harry’s eyes widened considerably, especially when you take into account his usual indomitable demeanor.

“Um. I’m a human. Not an object,” more damning words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them.

Voldemort tightened his hold on the back of Harry’s neck. It climbed to the point of painful, but it was nothing compared to the new grip on his right hand, the one with a false engraving. 

Of course, another dog like whimper had to escape his throat. Because that’s the way Harry’s world worked. Life just loved to screw with him, didn’t it?

There were a pair of eyes staring loathingly at his right hand scar, but it felt like two, really, and Harry thought he was going insane with all the things he was feeling: blistering pain from that bitch of a scar, the indescribable wholeness of whatever the hell was going on, and the fucking shame of letting out weak ass whimpers whenever he got hurt. Jesus Harry, could you not act like a completely helpless child all the time?

“Who gave you this?” Voldemort asked, because how could he not.

He ran a thumb across the scabs, and Harry was oddly grateful for the scattered sunshine that ran across his skin. Did the dreamworld lower inhibitions like alcohol, or was it just the absolute desperation for wholeness? Either way, Harry was glad to have an excuse.

“An absolute bitch,” he mumbles. 

“But who, my dear?” honestly, it was a miracle that Voldemort didn’t put his horcrux under the crucio in that moment. He would never allow such tongue and cheek with his Death Eaters.

“Fuck it. This is a dream,” Voldemort smirked at Harry’s willful ignorance, “Dolores Umbridge. Always acted like she had a stick up her ass. Was strongly against the idea that ‘You-Know-Who,’” another snort, “had come back. So she made me use a blood quill for months. And now I have this shit etched into my hand. Bitch is a goddamn sadist,” Harry was too busy glaring at his right hand to notice the Dark Lord’s satisfied smirk.

“I’ll make sure she regrets her decision, dear. No need to worry,” he speaks to his horcrux like one would speak to a toddler.

“I’m sure you’ll make such a difference, subconscious Voldemort,” the sarcasm in his tone was blatant. Voldemort took slight offence to his lack of faith.

“Okay, Harry. You doubt Lord Voldemort?” he started, only to be interrupted.

“Wow look it’s that sign of insanity again.”

“You doubt Lord Voldemort?” it was phrased more forcefully, punctuated with a glare, “Let’s make a bet. If that ‘absolute bitch,’” the slur felt weird and abrasive in his mouth, and Harry had to keep himself from giggling, “isn’t dead tomorrow, then I’ll tell you how to get the locket,” Voldemort doesn’t even worry about keeping his end of the bargain, “If she is, then you tell me everything you know about Cho Chang,” Harry looked at him like he had just sprouted a third ear.

The Dark Lord was aware of how possessive and greedy his offer was; he just didn’t care.

“What do you think, dear?” he already knew Harry’s answer.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, weird, creepy, dream Voldemort,” Harry said, completely unaware that he was making a deal with the devil.

The locket buzzed happily, and only Voldemort could hear it’s actual words.   
****

**"Hook line and sinker,”** to who it was referring to, we’ll never know. 


	3. Chapter Three

It had been awhile since Lord Voldemort had seen a second use for flowers. In his opinion, they were only useful for deception in making poisonous and foul-smelling potions. People were fools, - that was another of his many opinions - so they wouldn’t suspect a thing from a drink that smelt of lavender. Just a few crushed up petals could mean life or death to most people, and the thought was utterly appalling to the Dark Lord. 

The fine summer day on which he set out for the ministry, however, he did not think of this use. He thought of the salesman who claimed his flowers were sure to woo the one you desire, and he thought of the man’s booming voice blaring the words “special” and “someone.” He thought of the floating, radioactive-green carnations that reminded him of Harry Potter’s eyes, which would never fade, unlike the sickly, all-too-fragrant flowers.

An almost Malfoy-like sneer crossed Voldemort’s face while passing the smiling man’s pink themed cart. 

_ Sickening. What fool would ever buy such a meaningless gift? _

The man only smiled in response to his scorning, the well-worn ridges of his cheeks wrinkling into a familiar expression, and his eyes flashed a sad twinkle, the one Albus Dumbledore had given little, vindictive Tom Riddle so many years ago. Something about the almost patronising happiness enraged Voldemort. Was the florist’s joy taunting him? Antagonising him? Showing the Dark Lord what he could never acquire? It dangled the easy key to happiness just out of his reach.

_ You bitter old man. _

But it was Voldemort condemning himself.

A titlewave of unresolved resentment threatened to bubble to the surface of his carefully constructed mind, but there was a new sensation buffeting Lord Voldemort’s usually all-encompassing rage. Like cool, clean clarity, Lord Voldemort could feel - not see - the sensations of unruly black hair, a spring filled mattress, and trembling lips. Words of assurance spilled from them, pleas, however, would be the more accurate term for most people. It was a sort of hysteric comfort, the type an inexperienced mother give. Harry Potter was desperate; Lord Voldemort could feel it.

“Oh god. Oh god. You’re gonna be okay. Let’s not kill anyone, okay? Oh god,” and the boy with eyes like green carnations was speaking to him with a panicked sort of hope, the kind the light had always clung to. Usually, Voldemort resented it, but when it came from his darling horcrux’s lips, it was somewhat endearing in its own foolish way, like a child that didn’t know better.

_ “Why?”  _ Voldemort asked, not expecting to get an answer. The few times the boy had climbed into his mind he had always stood as a bystander, watching the Dark Lord commit the worst crimes with wide, terrified eyes.  _ “Why should I spare this man’s life?” _

Harry hadn’t been expecting a response, either. 

“I- Because- Because killing is a terrible thing to do! And he probably hasn’t done anything too bad, has he? And- And I’ll- Um. I’ll be sad,” Harry finished lamely, thinking that he probably couldn’t have said anything worse. I’ll be sad? Really?

_ “Would it really upset you so greatly? You don’t even know this man,”  _ said Voldemort, glaring at the salesman. His smile was brighter than before, now that he was talking to a smartly dressed man with two children, and it only served to enrage the Dark Lord more.

“Ouch! Stop doing that,” Harry rubbed his scar with an expression one might give a sibling after having the T.V. remote stolen from them, “But yes. It would ‘upset me so greatly’ if you were to kill a person. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t like people dying,” said Harry, feeling like he was insane. Who wouldn’t? Talking with evil Dark Lords inside your head was not exactly commonplace.

_ “I hate to upset you, dear,”  _ and that was the truth; his horcruxes were extensions of himself, and so they were to be treated as such,  _ “but the man was quite antagonising. He is not worthy of your protection. I wish you would see that,”  _ Voldemort tried to soothe his soul with the same logical reasoning that he had soothed himself with after killing Myrtle so many years ago. It, as expected, did not work.

“No one deserves to die!” Harry shouted, more than a little hysterically, “Please, just don’t kill him, whoever he is,” he ran his hands through his already tousled hair. 

_ Perhaps it would be useful to build up his trust. Make him feel like he’s in control. It’d be quite cute for him to believe things are happening on his terms, too. Merlin knows that a confident Harry Potter is a less intelligent Harry Potter. _

_ “Fine,”  _ with the word came a cloud of relief and joy, and it was all Voldemort could do not to laugh.  _ “I’ll spare the worthless man.” _

“I- I um. I- Thank you. Yes, thank you. Thank you so, very much,” and Voldemort could feel the wide smile ripping across his horcrux’s face. It filled him with the most odd, peculiar feeling, and he knew - he just knew - that he, Lord Voldemort, wanted to be the only one to cause that smile, the only one to witness that smile. It was precious. It was beautiful. He had always been obsessed over precious, beautiful things, and Harry Potter was the most beautiful and precious of them all. 

_ “Lord Voldemort will bend the world to your whims, you need only ask, my dear,”   _ it was the truth. The most startling, terrifying truth ever conceived, but a truth nonetheless. 

***

_ You need only ask, my dear. _

Harry Potter had done a plethora of things before twelve o’clock in the afternoon. He had thrown away Aunt Petunia’s atrocious necklace, washed the dishes, made breakfast, swept the floor, and, most importantly, saved a man’s life. Now, those were all very impressive things, but none of his feats could match his miraculous ability to block out the truth. It’s amazing, really, how he could convince himself that he was barking mad, even after going through a uncountable amount of things many people would call you ‘barking mad’ for describing. 

A world full of magical people who wear borderline dresses all day, every day? Completely normal.

Traveling on a hippogriff’s back to save his godfather, previously thought to be his parents’ murderer, and using a time travel device to do it? Makes sense.

Stabbing a diary, which happens to hold half of the Dark Lord’s soul, to save Ginny Weasley, the girl having the life sucked out of her by said diary, and using the headmaster’s phoenix’s tears to heal your wounds? I can roll with that.

The Dark Lord is in your head and talking to you through your dreams? I’m completely barking mad. 

Harry Potter’s logic was not the soundest.

But, even as he convinced himself that he was hallucinating, he couldn’t get Voldemort’s words out of his head. They wrapped around him like snakes, their promises hissing silkily across his skin, traveling into his ears and into his mind in quick succession. Every few minutes, the Dark Lord’s sentences would make their way into Harry’s mind and violate the momentary silence. They consumed him, too. Their presence was no way momentary; they would stay there, sitting on his thoughts, stalling his tasks. Now, that was madness: the ruminating nature of Harry Potter.

He, however, was in no way ‘barking mad.’

_ Why should I spare this man’s life?  _ It was a genuine question. It was a challenge. It was addicting. The adrenaline Harry could acquire from playing God was unmatchable; Quidditch paled in comparison. There was danger and an accelerated heartbeat and a sensation that couldn’t be described, but it was seductive, calling him in with an almost unstoppable power. Why did he crave that, of all things? It was the finest form of blasphemy, a savior craving destruction. 

But why? Did he truly want the world in ashes? Was it just a chance to create something to save? Or was the adrenaline enough? Was Harry Potter held irrevocably in danger’s warm, worrying grasp? 

He didn’t trust himself anymore, and, at that point, he was beyond paranoia: just where Voldemort wanted him.


	4. Chapter Four

To Dolores Umbridge, joining the Dark Lord made sense. His power called to her like the sweets cabinet called to a mischievous child, except Dolores would never touch such fattening food. It was only sensible to watch her figure. Nonetheless, her instincts purred at the thought of mooching off of the authority of such a notoriously cruel and affluent man, and h er mind’s processes quickly confirmed the sentiment. The arrangement was perfect.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named needed a person to watch the little people, whip them into shape. She was more than happy to deliver. 

She severed faithfully, and it was quite rare to see the Dark Lord in her office. (Perhaps he knew that the lack of his presence was a reward in itself?)

It was because of her good behavior that she thought it was quite odd to see her boss, glamour clad and with a bouquet of green carnations. His visit, she thought, was not at all sensible. 

She trusted in her Lord’s sensibilities, but he had not even sent an owl to warn her of his presence. It was most rude. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Umbridge,” said the rude man, pleasantries rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

“Good afternoon, my Lord,” answered Dolores. “Is there any task you wish of me? Your visit is unexpected,” she curtsied, hoping the gesture was deemed respectful enough.

“Yes, I require information,” Voldemort smirked, and she decided that she did not like that expression. No, she did not like it at all. “Do you remember Harry Potter? You taught him, if I recall correctly.”

Voldemort’s hands and eyes found themselves searching through Dolores’ small room, which was almost suspiciously generic. The walls were covered in uninspired cream, and stately filing cabinets lined each wall.  _ Most certainly not cozy. _

“I do remember Potter,” said Umbridge, eyeing the most powerful wizard in Britain with blatant confusion. “He was a contrarian child, and I fear that he still is. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were his friends, though their tongues were not nearly as sharp. I’m quite glad to be rid of him, such an insolent boy,” Dolores sneered, trying her best to appease the Dark Lord, who looked just as stoic as ever.

_ Her lips are not worthy of speaking his name, just as they are not worthy of speaking mine. _

“And what punishment did you use to remedy his insolence?” Voldemort’s wayward fingers, tired of flipping through academic text, traced the petals of those insensible carnations while he spoke, and Umbridge thought she could explode with the oddness of it all. Her Lord had never acted so out of sorts.

“A blood quill, my Lord,” she said, uncomfortably wringing her pink handkerchief.  _ Weak. _

“A blood quill? How barbaric,” the Dark Lord answered with dark disapproval. 

Umbridge’s face turned white. 

“I’m- I’m sure you must agree that the punishment was warranted. Yes? Disobedience is unacceptable,” as if to make her fear even more obvious, her voice raised an octave, and Voldemort could barely stop himself from strangling her right then and there.

“But to scar a child, Delores? Lord Voldemort is not without morals,” he chided, taking pleasure in the way his disapproving words affected his subordinate. 

_ Was this your joy, Mrs. Cole? _

“I was not aware of your aversion to pain as punishment,” Umbridge’s breaths were unusually shallow, but she carried on just the same. 

“Oh, pain is most necessary,” said the Dark Lord, eyes flicking upwards to catch horror filled confusion. “I only take offense when pain touches and stays, when it scars. I become enraged,” he put enough emphasis on the word to make Dolores’ eyes go wide, “when the pain touches something darling, something delicate, something that’s  _ mine. _ ” 

Daring. Delicate. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named now graced Harry Potter with attributes one would to give to a flower. With the additional word “mine,” the bouquet was making a bit more sense. The situation, however, stayed just as murky, if not even more unclear. 

“Darling.” Dolores echoed, still the very picture of fear. 

“Tell me, Mrs. Umbridge, what lies did dear Harry tell to warrant his scar?” Voldemort’s eyes were blazing with an emotion Dolores could only call wrath, but she thought the feeling deserved a word that was a bit more fierce.

“He- He questioned the word of the ministry, my Lord. It was about your return, which was said to be false-“

_ Stuttering like Pettigrew. Pitiful. _

“But I had risen. The boy told the truth, Dolores. You have marred his skin with lies, and you must pay the price,” the Dark Lord raised his bony wand, and Dolores could only think of how no part of this day made sense, how there was no way for her to ever expect this betrayal. 

_ “I will kill her in your name, Harry.” _

And Harry was thrust into Voldemort’s mind for the second time that day, which was turning out to be the most murderous in his life.

_ “How do you want her dead?”  _ the blacks of Umbridge’s eyes grew impossibly large. 

Even through his haze, Harry realized the odd lack of pain in his scar. He performed a shaky search for the familiar anger that would usually warrant his current position, but he found no fury. There was only a cold, empty determination, and it seemed to fill all the gaps in Voldemort’s shattered soul. No passion graced this kill, only dutiful obligation.

_ Obligation to you. _

_ “I can slit her throat,”  _ he said, backing the former teacher against one of her paper organizers. 

Voldemort’s wand (and it really was a beautiful wand) inched forward, not stopping until it was a millimeter from Umbridge’s fragile skin. 

“No- No. That’s cruel,” said Harry, breathing panicked and words shaken. “Don’t kill her. Please.”

Voldemort couldn’t help his morbid smile when Harry felt the need to put his hands to his neck, as if searching for something that wasn’t there. 

_ “You asked for this darling. We made a deal, and Lord Voldemort does not forget a promise,”  _ Umbridge looked to be on the verge of feinting. 

“Please!” Harry begged, and it took all of Voldemort’s willpower to not coo and give into his horcrux’s demands.

_ “Now, how will she meet her demise, Harry?”  _ knowing the urgency it would put on the question, Voldemort placed a crucio on Dolores, who writhed and wailed like the Wicked Witch of the West. 

_ Yes, pain is most necessary. _

“Stop! Please stop! Just make it quick!” cried Harry, and Voldemort almost sighed at how heroic Harry insisted on being. 

“As you wish, though I personally believe she deserves much worse,” the Dark Lord blinked his eyes quickly, as if he was just now seeing Umbridge, who had somehow shifted to begging at his feet.

“Please, my Lord, spare me! I’ll do-“ her tearful cries were interrupted by a harsh and disapproving glare.  _ Finally. _

“Now, apologize to dear Harry. He’s listening, so you’d be a fool to not make it heartfelt,” the disinterested gaze Voldemort looked at her with was somehow more threatening than his words, and the cheap business carpet beneath her chafed knees suddenly was no longer a nuisance. 

Impending death really puts things in perspective; doesn’t it?

“I’m sorry, Harry,” her tone was appropriately distressed and repenting, but the Dark Lord couldn’t shake of the feeling of disgust at hearing such filth speak a name he thought to be sacred.  _ We really must get you a new moniker, dear, one that is suitable for these pigs to speak.  _ “I behaved in a cruel way, a way you did not deserve, a way your friends did not deserve. I’m sorry.”

To Voldemort’s delight, Umbridge did not shed anymore tears, and she seemed to accept her death with grace. She closed her eyes, applied a new layer of lipstick, and sat her hands in her lap. Dolores had always wanted to die dignified.

_ “Do you accept her apology, Darling?”  _ he was genuinely curious. 

Harry, taken aback, could only answer honestly, and his traitorous lips moved to create a damning word: “No.”

Voldemort smiled, more than pleased with his horcrux’s answer.

_ “I wouldn’t either. Perhaps we’re more alike than you think? We do, after all, share a soul.”  _

Voldemort raised his wand again, but this time it was more of a symbolic gesture. He hoped to relay a message: any person who dared to hurt his darling Harry would be killed, whether Harry liked it or not. It was merely a matter of protection, he reasoned.

_ Certainly not a possessive desire, a desire to kill and maim any fool who dared to touch Lord Voldemort’s things.  _

“Avada Kedavra,” he finally spoke, relishing the warmth of the spell leaving his wand. 

Umbridge’s body slumped, finally lifeless, but Voldemort still couldn’t help his desire to touch two fingers to her neck, right where the steady pump of an artery ought to be. A part of him always had to make sure.

_ “The flowers are for you, Harry,”  _ Voldemort said it almost casually, as if it was perfectly normal to offer a bouquet while assessing the state of a stopped heart.

“What?” Harry had been numb to his former teacher’s death, but the sentence Voldemort had just uttered was just absurd enough to snap him out of his haze. “Why in the world would you give me a bouquet?”

_ “To remind you that you could have anything, anything at all, if you came home to me,” _ he smiled once again, thumbing the petals almost lovingly.  _ “It doesn’t stop at that wretched man’s life or Dolores Umbridge’s death. You could save your friends, darling. I’d let them live free, and you would-”  _

“I didn’t tell you to kill Umbridge! I changed my mind, and you didn’t listen!” Harry fumed, more than a little angry.

A part of Voldemort wanted to flinch at the tone, to soothe and pacify Harry into the state that was caused by his glimmering necklace. 

_ “That was different, darling. She hurt you, and I simply cannot allowed such a crime to go unpunished. You surely must see that her death was most necessary.”  _

Harry ran a hand through his hair, and Voldemort felt an unwelcome pang of jealousy at the action.  _ Pretty hair on a precious boy. _

“This- This is crazy,” said Harry, shaking his head. “You don’t murder people just because they messed with someone you know. Malfoy’s a prat, but you don’t see me throwing unforgivables,” said Harry, not realizing that he had just given up another name.

_ “Malfoy?”  _ questioned Voldemort.  _ “Has he hurt you? Touched you? Was-”  _ in a fit of anger, the Dark Lord accidentally snapped three pencils in half.

Dolores said nothing.

“We’re not doing this again, Voldemort. He didn’t give me any scars, and it’s just a bit of a rivalry. Seriously, please don’t kill him,” Voldemort could faintly hear a shrill voice over the other side of their connection, and curiosity quickly overtook anger. 

_ “Who is that, dear?”  _ Voldemort questioned.  _ “Their voice is most unpleasant.” _

“Tell me about it,” Harry laughed, and Voldemort wished he could bottle the sound, hear it over and over again until it’s high melody was ingrained into his mind. 

_ Until the laugh was his and only his.  _

“Look, I gotta go. Chores and all. So can you, like, get out of my head or whatever?” Harry smiled again, and Voldemort couldn’t help but to become enamoured. 

_ He’s only doing it to get what he wants. _

_ I don’t think I care. _

“ _ Of course, darling. You need only ask,”  _  said Voldemort, never missing an opportunity to drop a sickly sweet pet name from his lips.

“T-Thank you,” said a bewildered Harry, surprised to feel their connection fade. 

***

“Chores. He said he had to do chores! It’s a disgrace to any wizard, let alone dear Harry. He is above such things, is he not?” immediately after his arrival home, Voldemort began pestering his other horcrux with indignant questions. 

The incompatibility of the words “Harry” and “Chores” had plagued him throughout the process of disposing of Dolores’ body, and he was desperately in need of a second opinion. 

With the silver chain in hand, he found himself gravitating to the freshly furnished room,  _ Harry’s room, _ with ardent speed. An oversized armchair, the one Voldemort was certain that Harry would like the least, cushioned his rapid speed, and Voldemort seemed to relax a bit at being in such a perfect-for-Harry room.  

_ He’ll come home. _

“Locket?” reminded the Dark Lord, mildly perturbed by his younger self’s silence. 

**“We were no stranger to manual labor; the boy will live,”** said locket, quickly dismissing the master soul’s urgent questions. 

Ghostly white toes suddenly gripped the shag carpet with vehemence. The action was accompanied by a sudden urge to cut all the room’s fluffy blankets in half and destroy the object that housed his tie to immortality.  _ How could my soul say such a thing?  _

“But he is mine,” there was a snarl on that word, and Voldemort just barely missed the mischievous twinkle in Tom Riddle’s gemstone eyes, “and he has no right to suffer when his Lord should be suffering for him. Would you really damn Harry to the childhood we had? To Mrs. Cole?” his toes seemed to grip to the floor even tighter at the thought of the wretched way Harry grew up at the hands of his relatives. He almost wished that Severus hadn’t told him. 

_ And to think that the news had brought him pleasure, that he once delighted in his darling’s suffering. Never again.  _

**“You are so…”** Locket pauses, always savoring chaos.  **“What is it that the muggles say? Whipped?”** he laughs that dreamlike laughter again, making his older self almost choke on his spit.  **“Harry Potter has bloody Lord Voldemort wrapped around his little finger. Why, you might as well be calling him your little prince with how you promise the entire world to him, our empire,”** he finished his teasing with what was supposed to be seen as the dumbest term of endearment ever, but Voldemort seemed to love it.

Locket will never regret anything more than unwillingly suggesting ‘little prince.’ 

“Yes. Their prince,” the Dark Lord nodded his head in pleased thought. “That is how they will address him, when the time comes. Those swine are not worthy of speaking his name, and Harry would most likely object to being referred to as a Lord,” in a sorry attempt at retaliation, the locket stung his master’s hand.

**“I can’t believe you,”** he lamented his loss with a tiredly fond voice.  **“Please put me down. I’d like to give you the silent treatment,”** Voldemort let out a hearty laugh at his horcrux’s words. 

“You wouldn’t. I’d go insane without hearing your voice,” his tone was light, but they both knew it was true. 

A horcrux couldn’t live without the master soul, and Voldemort couldn’t live without a horcrux. They were stuck together.

_ Harry is stuck with me. _

“But you must agree, yes? Harry belongs here, away from hardship,” he steered the conversation back to the topic Tom seemed so adamant about avoiding. 

**“But we want him to understand us. He hates you, Voldemort. An upbringing similar to ours would make him more susceptible to our wishes,”** Locket gave  his explanation with Voldemort’s very own brand of false caution. He liked stirring the pot; this was the best way to do it. 

“I made his life what it is,” the Dark Lord wasn’t sure of the feeling eating away at his gut, but he knew it felt wrong. “His ‘upbringing’ is a result of my actions, so leaving Harry to fester there will only make him resent me more,”  _ Harry cannot hate me. He is mine.  _ “I will repay my debt to him, fill the hole that I left. Our prince will have a family.  _ We  _ will be his family. I will make up for the abuse by spoiling him rotten, giving him anything he wants,” Voldemort was so sure of his plan. 

Locket would try to dash it to pieces.

**“Everything except his freedom, which he will want the most,”** guessed locket, his stones glimmering with mirth. 

“He will be allowed out of the manor. I only need to escort him,” Voldemort retorted.  _ You know that isn’t freedom.  _

**“You won’t let anyone get too close to your darling ‘prince.’ He won’t enjoy the fact that you sabotage every one of his affairs. Imagine your only romantic prospect being a Dark Lord with a snake face,”** the locket knew to hit where it would hurt. 

“Who says I want to pursue a sexual relationship?”  _ do I really look that bad?  _

**“Have you heard yourself?”** he snorted.  **“Harry Potter is my horcrux! Just let me tailor a room exactly to his tastes and crucio anyone who questions my motives. Isn’t Harry so darling, so precious? So** **_mine_ ** **? I will kill anyone who dares to lay a finger on him, even if they hold an important role in the ministry! No, Harry, don’t put your shirt on. Why? It’s because -uh- my locket doesn’t like it. Yeah. That’s why.”** Voldemort stares at his horcrux blankly, practically speechless.  **“You’re lucky I covered for you.”**

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, nodding slowly. 

_ He will be mine. _

**“You’re not giving up; are you?”** asked an exasperated locket. 

“No. I am not.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you so very much for taking the time out of your day to read my fan fic. If you have anything you'd like to tell me, please write a comment! Seriously, guys. I love criticism, and I'm always on a quest to improve my minimal writing skills, so don't be afraid to tell me your thoughts. There's a 99% chance I'll respond, too. I take interaction between myself and internet strangers quite seriously' 
> 
> -Meredith


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